Morning found him, haggard and worn, standing at the desk of the Seville Hotel in Indianapolis. Nervously he glanced at the lobby clock. His plane had been delayed, held back by strong headwinds. He feared that George Doyle might have already left for the race track.
“Did you wish a room, sir?” the clerk inquired, regarding his unkempt appearance with disapproval. “We’re filled.”
“Do you have a George Doyle here?”
“Newsreel man?” the clerk asked in an altered tone. “Yes, I think so.”
He checked a card index and reported that the man occupied Room 704. Without telephoning to learn if Doyle were in, Flash went up to the seventh floor.
In response to his knock, the door was flung open. George Doyle, hat pushed back on his head, faced him with a frozen gaze.
“Well?” he demanded unpleasantly. “What do you want?”
“I guess you don’t recognize me. We met at Brandale. Remember the Bailey Brooks ’chute pictures—?”
“Oh, sure,” the man broke in, but his voice still lacked warmth. “Sorry I can’t stop to talk now. I’m just starting for the track.”
“Joe Wells sent me,” Flash said significantly.